Chasing Shadows
by Maira the Panda
Summary: Agent Landry joins the White Collar Unit to help track down the White Shadow. Based on the USA Network 'Chasing the Shadow' game. OC, faint AU. Author's Note: IT LIIIVES! After a year and a half, it's been revived! There isn't even any mildew!
1. One Point Oh

"Agent Landry!" I look back over my shoulder. A short, balding man trots toward me. "I'm Joe, from the lab."

I smile at him, just the slightest bit insincere. "I am aware of that." He looks confused for a second until I gesture at the breast pocket of his lab coat, embroidered with his name.

"Oh, yeah." He grins widely. "I just wanted to say, it's a pleasure to be helping with the case. And-And to meet you."

"I beg your pardon?" What on Earth and Heaven is he talking about? I cock my head to the right, raise an eyebrow. Inquisitive, but still acceptable.

"Well, I mean, your father-"

"My father is no longer, how do you say, important. He is of the past. While this-" I gesture with one hand, looking around the brightly lit office. "-this is the future. This is current. Modern." I look back at Joe-from-the-lab. "My father is not."

"Oh." Joe-from-the-lab grins again. "All right. See you later."

"Certainly." I smile faintly, heading for the-_my_ cubicle.

It's nice enough, certainly. Small, but I don't need much space. It'll be nicer if I ever get the chance to put my pictures up… I glance at the bottom drawer of the-_my_ desk, just thinking about the photos that lie in the dark there. The top of _my_ desk is covered in new suspect sheets. There's also a Post-it on my desk- a sequence of numbers. Neal Caffrey's handwriting. '86753', whatever that means. I tuck it into my pocket, just in case.

I can barely hear my phone buzz over the cacophony outside.

'OK let's get the investigation moving again. Latest intelligence on the White Shadow points to an artist's loft here in the city. A Bertrand LeBlanc owns the property. Did some checking, guy is definitely shady. Should have full report back soon. In the meantime, check out loft and see what comes up. Move it!'

Peter Burke. Should be an idol of mine, but the guy's a bit… I don't know, slippery. Has a tendency to go behind the Bureau's back that shouldn't fly. He's just lucky that it does. Him and his pet convict are an example of that.

I grab my coat- how is it colder in New York than in the Alps?- and manage to catch the elevator before it closes.

"You're, ah, Agent Landry?" the man asks. He's medium height, black, shaved head and face, dark gray suit with a light blue tie. Clinton Jones.

"I am," I admit, pulling on the heavy wool coat.

"From Switzerland, right?" I change my phone to vibrate, looking at it rather than him so he won't see me gritting my teeth.

"France," I correct when I can answer politely. "My mother was Romany, French by birth. My father was an American."

"Dual nationality, huh?" No, you moron, I was only accepted to one country. Of course I have dual nationality!

"Yes."

"What's it like in, uh, France?" Is this bubblehead trying to _flirt_ with me?

"Cold." The elevator doors open, and not a moment too soon. I head for my car. Taurus. Ugly as sin, but Bureau-provided. I pause for a second, digging for keys that I realize I don't need. My phone vibrates as I reach for the keypad.

'Maybe you saw, maybe you didn't. I wrote the combo for the car on a yellow sticky note and left it on your desk. Before we go any farther, you need to remember that getting into the mind of a white collar criminal means noticing every detail.'

Neal Caffrey. Pet con-man. I look up at the building. He's standing by the glass wall of Burke's office on the seventh floor. He waves, and I can tell that he's grinning even from this distance. I don't look back as I get in.

I'm halfway there and stuck at a red light when I remember the computer system. Let's have some fun, shall we?

"Change language settings," I order.

"Current language: English. What would you like to change to?"

"French."

"_Langue courante: Français. Est-il ce correct?_"

"_Oui._"

I'm already in the apartment when the door opens. I pretend not to notice.

"You move fast, Agent Landry." The convict. I put down my camera and pick up the hotel key, not bothering to look at him.

"Certainly more fast than you, Mister Caffrey."

"I think it's 'faster'." Damn. I was close! "And my name's Neal. Mr. Caffrey was my father."

"Really." I finish my examination and bag the key. "Was he a criminal like his son?"

"Low blow." Caffrey's wincing theatrically as I stand. I wouldn't look at him if I didn't have to- just to annoy him, really- but he's standing right in front of me. "Isn't this where you say Agent Landry is _your_ father?"

"_Special_ Agent Landry was my father," I correct him. "And I would appreciate it if you would let lying dogs sleep." I push a stray strand of hair out of my eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Annoying you, apparently."

"Yes, you are. However, the question was meant to inquire as to your purpose here."

"Peter sent me." Of course he did. I hold back a dispirited groan. Of course he would realize I disliked his convict, and therefore send him to help. Of course. This is Peter Burke we're talking about, after all.

"_Fantastique_." I roll my eyes, pulling a spare pair of gloves out of my pocket. "Put these on, and go nowhere that has not been cleared."

"You didn't check for people?" He looks nervous. I manage not to smirk.

"I did, thank you for your confidence." I hold out the gloves, which he takes. "Do not go through any _secret doors_ you may find." I turn away, heading for the radio. "I know your kind is fond of them."

"Hey-"

"Simply- do not do anything stupid. Is that to your liking, _Caffrey_?"

"Sure." He sounds hurt. I can't tell without looking if he means it or if he's just being theatrical. "Whatcha doing?"

I sit on my heels in front of the table, so that my eyes are on the same level with the radio. "Looking for a secret door," I murmur, hearing him walk up behind me.

"How?"

I press the red 'tune' button with one finger. There's a rumbling noise as the bookcase moves. "Like that."

"What about-" I key in the combination swiftly, before Caffrey can even finish his complaint. "Oh."

The door clicks, unlocked.

"I thought you said not to go anywhere that hadn't been cleared," he half-whines.

"I have a gun," I tell him, testing the handle.

"Is that supposed to be reassuring?" The door swings open at my touch.

"Would you like it to be?" I draw my gun. "Stay here until I say it is clear."

He does, surprisingly.

"Safe," I call over my shoulder. He flicks on the lights as he comes in.

"Nice." He's staring at the paintings on the wall.

"Fake," I say.

He gives me a look. "That's a quick assessment."

"It is correct." I don't bother explaining to him.


	2. Point Seven Five

"Agent Landry."

I hold back a sigh before stepping into the conference room.

"Sir." I force a smile onto my face. Burke beckons me in.

"Agent Landry, this is Cruz-" the pale brunette waves at me from the far end of the table "-and Jones. " He's sitting two seats down, surrounded by files.

"It is a pleasure to meet you both," I say in my most careful accent. Shy, quiet, vaguely subservient. None of which is true. I'm not fond of it, but it has its uses.

"Landry's going to be working with us on the Shadow case. Your, uh, your brother's Interpol, right?" It takes me a second to realize Burke's talking to me.

"Yes." I don't bother smiling anymore. It's _always_ about the boys. "I worked with them myself for five years, as well."

"Sure." He doesn't sound like he cares a whit. I'd call him misogynistic, but I don't think he'd care about that either. "Did you find something?"

"No, I am afraid not." A pair of footsteps behind me in the hallway pauses for a moment. Peter glances over my shoulder at whoever-it-is, and they move on. "I went through the entire group, but nothing fit. I was coming up to see if you had any more."

"Yeah, sure thing." Peter gestures vaguely at Jones, who sorts out a pile of folders and slides them down the table towards me.

"Thank you." I gather them up. There are more than twenty thick files, and they're _heavy_, even for me. I shift my grip slightly as Burke speaks again.

"If you find anything…"

I nod. "I will… bring it to your attention."

"All right, then." I take that as a dismissal and head back out. I think as I walk.

Cruz, Lauren. She was originally from the Organized Crime Unit. She went to Cambridge, if memory serves me correctly. Fluent in five languages- or is it six? Something like that.

Jones. Clinton, I think. I couldn't get my hands on his file, but-

I hit the ground with a thump, remembering to roll at the very last possible second. Half my breath is knocked out of me, and the files are scattered all over the floor. The floor behind the Lego wall. Why is there a Lego wall in the middle of the FBI office?

"Ohmigosh."

I brush my fallen hair out of my face with a half-sigh. I must have tumbled wrong, cracked the clip open.

"Ohhhhmigosh."

I start picking up the files, more than a little annoyed that I didn't notice the _two foot high Lego wall_.

"Are you okay?"

I look up, blinking at the small group in the doorway. They have an air of pocket-protectors about them. One has ink-stained sleeves. I'm guessing… tech department.

"I am… fine. Thank you."

One man shoulders his way through the group. He's dressed better than they are, in a pale blue shirt and black vest. I haven't seen anyone wear a suit vest since I went through my grandfather's old pictures, when I was seventeen. He's got a beautiful hat, too.

"All right, guys, come on." He starts to shoo them back into the office. "It's rude to stare." They dissipate at his command, still apologizing vaguely.

"Thank you." I take the folder he holds out before noticing the lump at his ankle. "You are Neal Caffrey." There's a note of surprise in my voice that is, to be completely honest, pointless. I was going to meet the criminal at one point or another. It was just good luck that he wasn't there when I went up to get the files.

He catches my glance at his tracker. "The one and only," he says, shrugging the comment off. "You need a hand?"

I take the last dossier from him and straighten the pile. "I will make do. Thank you."

His smile strains a little, and he gives a half-nod at the tech office. "Please, you need a hand."

The sudden, mechanical roar of "I AM OPTIMUS PRIME!" makes me jump. The air fills with the sound of a Nerf machine gun.

"I... see what you are saying," I say. I think I got it right, I think I got it right…

"Thanks." I got it right! Or he's too polite to comment. Either way works for me. I split the heap with him, just a little grudgingly. I don't really need the help of a convict.

"So, you know my name, but I don't know yours." Caffrey trails after me like a chattering puppy.

"I am Agent Landry. I am working with Agent Burke's team on the White Shadow case."

"Really? You're the new recruit?" No, convict, I am not a new recruit. I am new to New York. I am relatively new to America. You could even say I am new to _English_. But I am not a new _recruit_.

"You could say that," I agree diplomatically.

"Well, welcome to New York." He grins, and I can't help a faint smile. That's the first time anyone's said something like that to me.

"Thank you." My reply is still suitably sarcastic.

"How do you like it?"

"It is certainly… different."

"Heads up, Neal!" is the yell from the direction we came from. We both duck as a Nerf pellet goes whizzing past.

"I think I need to go and make sure they don't kill each other." He grins, handing me back the folders.

"I think that is a good idea." I think it'll also be great for you to _go away_.

"See you later?" he asks, walking backwards. I don't reply. Let's hope not.

…

Okie dokie. Like? Don't like? Favorite lines?

Credit for the Transformer-Nerf battle in the Tech Department goes to InvisibleSpork's story "Hot or Cold", first chapter. Read it.

By the way, I'm hoping the schedule should be Mondays and Thursdays. Yes, it's kinda lopsided, but you'll get over it.

Please review! Reviews make me happy. And I reply to each and every one of them!


	3. Two Point Oh

It isn't nice when your first thought upon waking up is:

Where the hell am I?

My phone buzzes again. That must be what woke me in the first place.

(Yeah, but where is the _place_?)

It's a text, from Joe-from-the-lab.

'_Got it! I ran an encryption diagnostic on that keycard you submitted. Belongs to a creepy little hotel- the Betsey- over on the west side.'_

Ugh. The Betsey. Nasty, nasty, nasty. Horrible place. The staff does its best, but I get the feeling the manager is stealing all the renovation money. The place hasn't been so much as repainted since the 60's.

Repainted… I know where I am now. I'm at the new house. Of course. I keep forgetting that I live in a house and not an apartment now.

My phone pings again as I'm gathering up the files and stuffing them into my bag. It's a text from Burke.

'_I know its early_' –Yeah, no, duh.- '_but I need you to the Betsey Hotel as soon as possible and bring that keycard.'_

Already planning on it. Thanks for the brilliant idea, _boss_.

'_Someone who fits Vitarellis description is a regular there.'_

That's new.

'_Check it out and get back to me if you find anything.'_

Yeah, yeah.

I scribble a note to Rose and tape it to the wall opposite her bedroom door.

'_Left for work early. Go to school. Do __not__ go to Tony's house. Should be back before you get home. If not, be good. See you soon._'

Poor Rosie. I wish I could be there for her more often… Still. I may not be a perfect parent, but being with me has to be better than being with her grandparents.

At least, that's what I keep telling myself.

* * *

"Hey there. What's a pretty lady like you doin' down here?"

I look over my shoulder at the voice. A young man and his posse. I stop and turn to face them.

"What do you want?" I ask, just sounding bored rather than exasperated.

"Well, I wouldn' mind a piece a that purty accent."

"Or that purty body," one of his buddies snickers.

"I am sorry, but I have business to attend to." I'm not sorry. I'd be sorry if I snapped that little bastard's neck, but otherwise… I turn away before I continue that thought.

"Really, you gotta meet your pimp?" He snaps the last 'p'. I turn on my heel slowly.

"No, actually." I move my coat out of the way of my badge and undo the clip on my gun's holster. "I have a crime scene to visit, so unless you and your 'boys' would like to come forward as witnesses…"

"No way, lady, we didn' see nuthin'!" They're backing away.

"Really? But I did not even say what occurred."

"We-We was in Brooklyn, at a party," the leader stutters.

"I did not say when."

"Uh, we just got back, like, like, a minute ago."

"Oh. What a shame. Perhaps I should take your names, in case the FBI needs to contact you later?"

"No, no, it's okay."

"If you insist." I smile, and they run.

No one stops me as I walk into the lobby, or asks any questions. The first thing I hear- aside from muffled shouting through the walls of the second-floor stairwell- is the cleaning woman's voice.

"_Hola, senora. Usted perdió su llave?"_ Her _malandro _Venezuelan accent is thick compared to my Castilian Spanish.

"_Estoy con FBI. Me llaman _Agent Landry. _Usted ha visto a este hombre?_" I hold out a spare picture of Vitarelli.

"_Sí,_ _es en la sala de 308__." _Really? That's wonderful news.

"_Puede usted déjeme adentro?" _I gesture at the door three down, labeled 308 in stick-on mailbox numbers.

"_Sí, por supuesto." _The woman looks nervous. She fumbles with the keyring.

"_Senora…_" I smile at her after she unlocks the door. "_No estoy con Immigrac__ión._" She gives me a relieved look. "_Gracias._"

* * *

I spend a very boring three hours going over the room with a couple of other agents. They joined me after I found a box of fake shoes, and the fake dress, and the address. You know. All the stuff that they should have found to begin with, rather than having to send me. Alone.

Never mind. I'm sure I'm just grumpy from lack of sleep. Forget it.

"Hey, Landry!"

God damn it. What have I done to deserve this?

I haven't had enough sleep to deal with the convict. His incessant perkiness only makes my mood worse. I stop short, three doors down the hallway, trying to decide if I can still pretend I didn't hear after I've stopped.

"Yes, Caffrey?" My chances are too low. I turn on my heel to face the convict. I'm cruelly pleased to see his smile falter at the sight that I am obviously one of few people, it seems, who do not like him.

"Peter wants us to take the evidence we've got back to the lab," Caffrey tells me.

Wants _us_? Evidence _we've_ got? Ugh, I want to scream. If Burke hadn't sent- not sent,_ ordered_, really- _me_ here _alone_ (that's as in _without backup_, by the way, which is foolhardy, even for me) then _we_ wouldn't have anything.

"Do you have it?" I demand briskly.

"I thought you did-"

I roll my eyes, a bit harsher and a bit less mature than necessary. "I will get the evidence. Go and wait in the car."

"You're parked out front, right?" Neal calls after me as I start to walk past him. I make a vaguely agreeing gesture without looking over my shoulder.

* * *

"Hey, Landry. I've got a bit of an odd question."

I resist the urge to sigh deeply, roll my eyes, and/or stop the car and leave Caffrey in the middle of the street. "If you have a question, then you should ask it."

"If you were born in France, why do you have an English accent?"

Surprisingly original, and yet managing to be stereotypical at the same time. Impressive. "I was born in France, but I was raised by my grandparents in Spain. They paid for an English tutor. He was from Britain."

"Oh. That makes sense," is his reply. For a few moments, he's silent, and I'm just about to be grateful that he's not trying to make conversation any more when he speaks again. "So-"

"No, no, my turn," I interrupt, managing to sound playful rather than pissed. "Now I have a question for you, Caffrey."

"Ask away," he says. He crosses his arms and tries not to look gleeful that I'm finally playing along. "And, please, call me Neal."

"Do you always talk so much, or is this treatment reserved solely for people who don't like you?" I glance at him, smiling and cheerful. "Because, Neal, I don't like you. I don't like the way you work, I don't like the way you seem to think you know more than me, I don't like your habit of barging into situations, and I really don't like that you're a criminal. I hope you understand that."

He is silent at long last. Thank God.

* * *

So much for "Mondays and Thursdays". More like "A year and a half from now"! Bet you never thought this would be updated! Looking forward to lots of reviews and new readers. Oh, and I don't own White Collar or the Chasing the Shadow game, which is AWESOME and you should definitely play.


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